


Meddlers On The Roof

by ProfessorFlimflam



Category: Holby City
Genre: BAW - Berena Appreciation Week 2018, Berena Appreciation Week, F/F, Family, Favourite Dynamic, Floxanna, Gays On The Roof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 09:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15682602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorFlimflam/pseuds/ProfessorFlimflam
Summary: It is an inescapable truth that the roof of Holby City Hospital is the special preserve of a certain type of employee - anyone who owns part of the LGBT acronym owns part of the roof.Bernie has plenty of memories of this roof, some happy, some poignant and some almost too painful to bear. It’s about time she and Serena helped someone else make a few memories up here...





	Meddlers On The Roof

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2 of Berena Appreciation Week: Favourite Dynamic
> 
> It has to be Gays On The Roof for me - and let’s welcome another member of the club up here, shall we?

It was a funny thing, really. Nowhere was it written in hospital policy - well, of course, for how could it be, when Equality and Diversity cut both ways? - and there were no signs in the stairwell, or on the door at the very top, yet it was an inescapable truth that the roof of Holby City Hospital was the special preserve of a certain type of employee. You never saw Zosia and Oliver up there (though you might be forgiven for thinking you had seen Zosia heading up the stairs with Jac Naylor). Ric Griffin respected and defended the right of his colleagues to go up to the roof, but it wasn’t for him. Matteo didn’t even know where the stairs were, though Nina had glanced at the handrail longingly from time to time.

No, the roof was the exclusive territory of hospital staff who identified as lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender or any other flavour of sexuality represented by the ever-expanding acronym. So it was that Bernie Wolfe, visiting from Nairobi some months after her trauma unit had been opened, found herself naturally gravitating to the metal staircase - if one could be said to gravitate upwards.

She had plenty of memories of this roof, some happy, some poignant and some almost too painful to bear. She recalled her early days at the hospital, when she and Dominic Copeland would find solace in each other's company as he fretted over his toxic relationship with Isaac Mayfield, and she pined over her unrequited love for Serena “Very Much The One” Campbell. Together, she and Dom had sat and watched the seagulls and pigeons on their manoeuvres as they sorted out their respective love lives, and they had established that they were nice people, and that Bernie, at least, didn’t smell. These days, Dom came up here with Lofty, on the pretence of “discussing wedding arrangements,” and Bernie couldn’t be happier for him.

Things had moved on for her since those days, too, in ways she hadn’t dared to hope for. In the brief heady weeks after her return from Kiev, Bernie and Serena had made the space their own, escaping the ward as frequently as they could manage for a rooftop rendezvous. They had christened the wall behind the stairwell, the steps where she had once sat commiserating with Dom, and one memorable and hilarious evening, the deck chairs. Then Elinor had died, and their meetings on the roof were for long embraces, for screaming rage into the night, for hard conversations.

And one terrible evening in April, Bernie had thought she was going to the roof to find it empty. She stood at the top of the stairs now, her hand resting against the heavy door that she had broken that evening in her fear and haste. Adrenaline really was the most amazing thing, she reflected. It was only Hanssen’s intervention that had prevented the bill for its repair coming out of her payslip. She had burst through the door expecting to find Serena’s coat, her bag - perhaps a note. Instead, to her immeasurable relief, she had found Serena herself, a bottle and a half of Shiraz the worse for wear, a pile of fag ends at her feet, and the tinny sound of Blondie leaking from her headphones. They had sat together on the deck chairs again, as Serena confessed she had reached crisis point and needed to go.

Letting the memory go, Bernie pushed the door open (goodness, it really was heavy - no wonder her shoulder had ached afterwards!) and looked around her. Over by the railing was the small figure of Fleur Fanshawe, and Bernie approached her, holding out a cup of coffee for her.

“Have you poisoned it, or just spat in it?” Fleur eyed her with suspicion. Bernie looked at her with narrowed eyes, then glanced to the railing as though measuring the distance.

“Careful, I’ve just thought of a fourteenth way,” she growled.

There was a High Noon of a pause, then they both burst out laughing, and Bernie gave Fleur a careful one-armed hug, her own coffee in her hand.

“How have you been, Werewolf?” Fleur asked affectionately. “Serena’s been so looking forward to you coming, it’s sickening.”

“I’m fine, thanks - happy to be here. She can’t have been looking forward to it more than I have. How has she seemed to you? Anything I ought to worry about?”

Fleur bumped her hip. “Not a sausage. I haven't had the faintest excuse to comfort her, thanks to your improved communication skills, damn you. She comes in every day with a smile on her face, and I have to say she’s rather reluctant these days to let me see her phone - saucy text messages, or saucy photos, Werewolf - which is it?”

Bernie’s only reply was a wink. Fleur managed to satisfy Bernie that Serena had indeed been managing rather better than previously, thanks in no small part to Bernie’s own redoubled efforts in communication, and what had evidently been a very _convincing_ reunion the last time she had been home. Bernie resolutely refused to give Fleur any further details about that particular forty eight hour period, but acquiesced to her detailed questioning about her clinic in Nairobi. It was only towards the very end of Fleur’s allotted break time that Bernie managed to get a word in edgeways.

“And how about you, Fleur - how have things been with you?”

The normally irrepressible Ms Fanshawe sighed, and picked at the edge of her cardboard cup.

“Oh, well, you know. Reconciled to the fact that Serena will never have eyes for anyone but you. Not quite reconciled to the fact that I’m getting a bit long in the tooth to find someone else to play with.”

“Well, I have to say I hope you’re right on the first point, but I don’t believe the second for a moment. Surely I don’t have to tell you there are plenty more fish in the sea?”

“I know there are, but how many of them are silver foxes with the kind of brain and character you need to make it to consultant in this place, hmm? You have to admit, Serena’s one of a kind.”

Bernie could hardly deny the truth of this, but she made a mental note to keep an eye out for potential playmates for Fleur, of whom she had grown unexpectedly fond. Surely Serena couldn’t be the only female consultant in the Greater Holby area who might be in a position to appreciate Fleur’s distinctive charms? She made consoling noises for now, and by the time she returned to Obs and Gynae, Fleur had resumed her customary sharp good humour.

***

Serena had not been able to make time for a break until much later in the day. One thing after another had clamoured for her attention, and by four o’clock, she was more than ready to get a bit of fresh air and a bit of fresh Bernie, if she were lucky. She fired off a quick text to her partner, whom she had last seen wheedling her way into observing Henrik in surgery, and made her way up to the roof. She had spent enough time up here in recent months to take the sting out of the memory of the night she and Bernie had adopted a hopeless pigeon, and she pushed the heavy door open with a smile on her face, looking forward to spending some time up here with Bernie again. She wondered if Bernie was out of theatre yet.

For a moment, she thought that her partner had beaten her to it, for standing by the rail looking out over the Peace Garden was a tall figure with long legs and bright hair - but she was shocked to realise it was not Bernie, but Roxanna MacMillan.

“Roxanna! Fancy meeting you up here,” she exclaimed. “Are you all right? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you up here before.” She knew full well that she hadn’t, and to be honest, she thought that everybody knew about the territorial claims on the roof, but apparently the memo had not yet reached Ms MacMillan.

Had she but known it, Roxanna’s sigh was the very echo of Fleur’s, some hours earlier.

“Oh, just a bit maudlin, I suppose. I’m feeling my age and my widowhood rather more than usual at the moment. You know how it is - I mean, I know you’ve got Bernie here just now, but - well, not to put too fine a point on it, the nights get lonely, don’t they?” she said wistfully.

Serena gave her a warm, kind smile of understanding.

“They do, don’t they? And is there no-one to keep you company these days? I'm surprised, a gorgeous creature like you. Not even anyone on the horizon?”

Roxanna shook her head. “Henrik, bless him, offered his… companionship, but he’s more like a brother to me. I just couldn’t think of him in that way - and he and David were so close. It just didn’t feel right at all. No, I suppose I’m on the prowl again - only it’s so long since I’ve had to seek out company that I’ve forgotten how.”

Serena suppressed a laugh, but said gently, “Well, I have to break it to you that this probably isn't the best place to start searching. You hadn’t heard that this roof has a certain reputation?” She raised an eyebrow just enough to make her meaning clear, but Roxanna showed no surprise or alarm, and looked her square in the eye.

“Oh, I’m well aware of its reputation. Rather banking on it, to tell the truth,” she said to Serena’s astonishment. But before Serena could quiz her on this surprising turn of conversation, she heard the door open behind them, and there was her very own long-legged vision of beauty.

Roxanna smiled at Serena. “I’ll leave you two to it - I’m sure every moment you have together is precious. Thanks for listening, Serena.”

Bernie watched as Roxanna picked her way back to the stairs, and when the door had closed behind her, she looped her arms around Serena’s waist.

“Listening to what? Are you Roxanna’s agony aunt now?”

Serena chuckled. “Something like that. She’s just feeling a bit lonely, I think: it’s been a while since David died, and we both know it’s hard to be alone at our time of life, don’t we?”

Bernie held her a little closer for a moment. “We do. But we’re both here now - let’s enjoy it while we can, hmm?” And she leaned in to show Serena just how much she appreciated the fact that they were both here on the roof again. She smiled into the kiss. She loved being part of the little band of Gays On the Roof, as they had come to be known. Their own little club with exclusive membership criteria. Suddenly she broke away from Serena, who stood swaying for a moment, eyes still closed, lips still parted for Bernie’s kiss.

“Hang on,” Bernie said, a puzzled note in her voice. “What was Roxanna doing up _here?_ Surely she knows the drill? I’m sorry she’s feeling a bit blue, but this is _our_ place!”

Placating a positively indignant Major, Serena shook her head. “Turns out it’s her place as well. She’s casting a wider net than I realised, though I don’t know who she might run into up here that could scratch that itch for her.”

“You mean she’s family?” Bernie looked back towards the door, and turned smiling to Serena. “I think I’ve just had a brilliant idea…”

***

Roxanna climbed the last few steps very slightly out of breath. It had been considerate of Serena to text her to say they were leaving, and that the roof was free again. She hadn’t been quite ready to face the world yet, and although she had only just got to the bottom of the stairs, she had turned on her heel and gone straight back up again. She thought she heard a scuffle somewhere behind her as she went out to the roof, but dismissed it as pigeons having a set-to. She had only been back at the railing for a few moments, when the door opened again, and her heart sank. She just wasn’t going to get any solitude today. She turned to see a woman she vaguely recognised from the occasional cross-departmental meeting.

The woman was eyeing her thoughtfully. “You’re not the Werewolf,” she remarked, which, while true, was nevertheless a slightly off-putting way to be greeted.

“I’m sorry?” She drew herself up to her full height, and the woman’s eyes widened, along with her smile.

“You’re Roxanna MacMillan, aren’t you?” Her gaze travelled from the long, long legs to the silver quiff, taking in everything in between. “I don’t think we’ve met properly. Fleur Fanshawe, Obs and Gynae consultant.” She stuck her hand out, and looked pleased with the firm grasp it was met with.

A still somewhat bewildered Ms MacMillan started at the thud of the door slamming, and the ominous little click that followed it. She strode over to it, one hand still held firmly by Fleur’s, and they looked at each other in shock as they realised that they had been locked out here together. Fleur was sure she heard giggling and the sound of footsteps receding down the stairs, and she frowned. It was when she heard the honk of a laugh that could only belong to one woman that she realised exactly what was going on, and she turned to Roxanna with an appropriately wolfish smile.

“No need to make that call quite yet, I think - put your phone away for now, and let’s make the most of an enforced break from work.”

Roxanna had indeed been in the middle of calling the porters to get someone to come and release them, but she saw something in Fleur’s eye that made her pause.

“That’s better. Now then, Foxy Roxy: tell, me - what are you doing up on this _particular_ roof this fine afternoon?”


End file.
